Now that I've once again declared myself a writer, I want to do "more."
So I'm sitting here, blinking, a little perplexed.
My first instinct? Head to Barnes & Noble, buy a 2010 Writer's Market, and grab my highlighter.
It makes me nervous.
I remember how overwhelming it was, how daunting, to pore through those listings, praying to find the journal that would accept my writing. It felt like groveling, an impossible task of trying to please an invisible someone who would never "get" me.
Some of my nervousness stems from working as an editorial assistant for a literary review. Part of my job was to read submissions and help decide which would be published and which wouldn't. I turned down lots and lots and lots of writers.
Part of me wants to rise above my desire to see my work in print.
Then there's another part that believes if I were published -- just once more -- I would feel "legitimate."
Even though I never felt "legitimate" before.
I suppose what I really want (when I'm thinking grandiose "if my life were a movie" thoughts) is to be a grand success even without my MFA. What the "grand success" part looks like is blurry, but it's far from where I am now.
